Things Hoped For (10 page)

Then Robert and I are less than half a block from Grampa’s brownstone, and I stop and I grab the sleeve of his jacket.

“Quick, in here!” And I pull him into the doorway of a dry-cleaning shop.

“What?”

“My uncle—he just went up the front steps.” I peek around the edge of the shop window, and Uncle Hank is putting his key into the lock. Then he’s in the front hall, and I say, “Let’s go—run!”

In ten seconds I’m fumbling with my keys, then we’re under the stoop, and then we’re inside the ground floor door.

I can hear Uncle Hank upstairs, pounding on the parlor door. And yelling. “Lawrence! Open up! I know you’re in there. Open the door!”

I checked the perimeter before we left. I know he can’t get in—unless he’s got a sledgehammer. But he’s making a huge racket, and the tenants and the neighbors are getting an earful.

I put a finger to my lips, and Robert nods and then follows me as I creep up the stairs and into the parlor.

“Lawrence! Open the door. We have to talk.” He bangs on the door again, and the heavy panels shake on their hinges. I wish the wood were six inches thicker.

Then Robert walks right over to about three feet from the door, and he says, “I told you yesterday. I don’t want to talk about this. Talk to the lawyers. And you’re disturbing the peace. So stop shouting and go away.”

Robert’s using Grampa’s voice, leaning forward with his shoulders hunched like an old man.

I press my hands to my cheeks and try not to gasp, but there’s no chance of that. I’m so scared, I can’t take a breath.

In a much quieter voice Uncle Hank says, “Finally—now open the door so we can talk.”

Robert shakes his head. “I don’t want to, and I’m not going to.”

“Come on, Lawrence.” Hank sounds like he’s talking to a small child. “Listen, I’m sorry I yelled at you on Thursday. And all that stuff I said, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I don’t want to put you into a nursing home somewhere. You’re my big brother, and I care about you. But you have to be reasonable. This building was left to both of us. And I need my share of it now. I need it now. Just let me use the place as collateral. For a loan. That’s all I want. You can still live here, and I can get some cash. What’s wrong with that? I need the money, Lawrence. How many times do I have to tell you? I
need
the money! So open the door and sign these papers. . . . Lawrence?”

Robert breaks into one of Grampa’s long coughing fits. Then he says, “I’m not signing anything. You come back next Sunday, and then we’ll talk. But leave me alone. And don’t you bother Gwennie either. Now go away so I can take a nap.”

After a pause Uncle Hank says, “And next Sunday you’ll sign the papers? Is that a promise?”

“No promises. Send it all to my lawyer. I’m taking a nap.”

Then Robert turns and shuffles noisily away from the door.

For ten seconds we both stand frozen, barely breathing, afraid to blink. Then we hear footsteps, hear the front door open and then slam shut. I dash to a parlor window and peek through the slats of the shutters. Uncle Hank is already stomping along the sidewalk toward Broadway, a file folder under one arm, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, shoulders stooped, head bobbing as he walks. I actually feel sorry for the man.

Robert says, “Pretty good, eh?”

I whip around and glare at him. “What, that you scared me to death? I can’t
believe
you did that.”

He shrugs. “It worked, didn’t it? He would have stood there banging on the door all afternoon. He might have even gone to get the police.”

“And he still might, for all you know.”

Robert shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I predict he’s off the radar screen for a solid week. And you can thank me anytime you want to.”

I’m still glaring. “So what happens when he calls Kenneth Grant, or when he shows up next Sunday?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know. But I know that your Juilliard and Manhattan auditions will be over by Wednesday, and then you should be on your way to Boston for your tryout at New England Conservatory. If your grandfather’s back, he can deal with Hank and the lawyer. And if he’s not, then who knows? Not my job, and it’s not your job either. We’re just two kids trying to get into college, remember?”

Robert’s exasperating, and he’s got this superior attitude all of a sudden. And he’s also right. Or almost right. Because even though I want my story to be that simple—that I’m just this kid trying to get into college—I know it’s more complicated than that. It was always much more complicated, and I’m finally starting to figure that out. I mean, so many things had to happen just right, or I wouldn’t even be here, wouldn’t be doing any of this. So many others have been part of my story.

Still, it wasn’t my mom and dad who boosted me onto this particular tightrope, and it wasn’t Uncle Belden, or even Mr. Richards. Yes, they all had parts to play, and, yes, I owe a lot to each of them. But right now, I owe the most to Grampa, who took me into his home, who built me a hideout in the basement. He’s still holding one end of my tightrope, and right now, right when I want to see him, I can’t. Because maybe he doesn’t know how much I appreciate all his help. And that I still need it.

But Grampa’s not here.

Then it occurs to me that it might also be nice to talk to Robert about this, about all of it, about my whole story.

But I’m too upset to talk, so I just say, “I’m going to practice.”

“Good,” Robert says. “That’s the right thing to do.”

As if I didn’t already know that.

Because playing music is the one part of my story that’s still absolutely my own.

Walking down to the basement, I take deep breaths. I try to let all the stress dissolve. I try to put Robert and Uncle Hank and Grampa out of my thinking, push everything aside until there’s nothing left except me and the music. Pyotr Melyanovich taught me that.

I can hear his thick Russian accent. “The music is not in your violin. The music is not in your bow or your technique. And the music is not in the notes on the page. A hundred years of practicing will not help one bit unless we have the music in here.
This
is where we must find the music, inside our hearts.”

Sometimes I know what he means, but today it’s not working. And I can imagine the judges on Tuesday, frowning, whispering to each other, shaking their heads. Who
is
this girl? And why did we decide to give
her
an audition? Because I’m playing all the right notes, but I don’t hear the music. I’m glad Pyotr has taught me the difference.

On this Sunday afternoon I keep playing the notes anyway, running through every piece. Because that’s important too, to have each note of each score burned into my mind and my fingers. The physical part of the performance needs to feel as natural as pouring water from a pitcher.

Still, with just two days to go, I should be feeling actual music. It should feel real. The composer’s ideas ought to be burning the paint off my practice room walls. The emotions should be vaporizing the muscles and the violin and the fingers and the bow, until there’s nothing left but pure thought. Because that’s what a true performance is, and nothing less will do.

And as I begin the
correnta
section of Bach’s Partita number 1 in B Minor, I remember last night, playing for Robert in the dark. That was real music. And our trumpet-fiddle duet? That was music
and
poetry
and
life
and
everything else. Everything else that matters.

And as I sweep into the stately opening of the
sarabande
section, my mind jumps to Robert’s question, about playing a fiddle tune for my teacher, about trying to close the gap between West Virginia and Lincoln Center.

So for a few measures, I pretend I’m Alison Krauss, and I introduce Bach to the Soggy Bottom Boys. But it’s the wrong time for experimenting, so I toss my fiddle back into the hills and keep playing violin. Which is all the challenge I need at the moment.

Playing at performance level is exhausting. It’s a real workout—mostly for the mind, but the body feels it too. I keep practicing until my fingertips hurt and my neck and arms are aching. And then I stop, because that’s important too—knowing when to rest.

When I walk back upstairs, Robert has the score of the Haydn concerto spread across the dining table, and he’s tapping out the notes on the buttons of his trumpet. I’m not mad at him anymore.

He looks up and says, “How’d it go?”

“Not great. But I ran through everything from memory. So that’s good. Want some food before you practice?”

He nods. “I’m starved. Got anything like a burger? I could walk over to that market on Broadway and get something to cook.” I get the feeling Robert looks for excuses for walking around New York, and I don’t blame him. It’s an amazing place. But he could wander off for an hour, and I’m too hungry.

I shake my head. “How about a steak? We’ve got some downstairs in the freezer.”

I start to turn back toward the stairs, and he says, “I’ll go get it. You look beat.”

He’s trying to be nice, so I let him. I smile and say, “Thanks. The freezer’s in the utility room, past the door that goes down to the basement. You can’t miss it.”

Then I go to the oven and turn on the broiler.

A minute or so later I’m putting water into a pot to start cooking some green beans when Robert comes back into the kitchen. His hands are empty, and he looks a little confused.

“The steaks are wrapped in white paper. Didn’t you see them?”

He shakes his head. “You better go down and look for yourself.”

I’m thinking it’s odd he couldn’t find the steaks, but mostly I’m focused on getting dinner ready, because I’m starved.

So I walk across the parlor and then down the stairs to the ground floor, and I can hear Robert following behind me.

I go past my bedroom door, along the hallway, and into the utility room. And I open the lid of the big freezer, because I know there has to be a steak or a roast we can cook up for supper.

And in the dim light I see my grandfather. Grampa’s in the freezer.

I don’t scream, partly because Robert is standing so close behind me. But I gasp, and then I push out a breath, and it turns into a small white cloud that hangs in the frozen air.

I just stare at Grampa’s face.

And I’m numb until a twinge in my chest makes me think back to when I was little, back in West Virginia. Because I’ve been to plenty of funerals, and sometimes they don’t close the lid on the coffin.

When you go to a funeral home, you know that you might see a body there, so you’re sort of ready for it. And I remember when we drove for a Sunday afternoon visit with Mama’s aunt Irene, and we all knew she hadn’t been well, and I knew that we might get there too late, and Aunt Irene would be gone. Except for her body.

It’s a big freezer, an old Kelvinator. When it’s late at night and the compressor turns on, I can hear it from my bedroom.

I don’t want steak anymore, so I close the lid. Gently.

I think you’re going into shock.”

That’s what Robert says. But I don’t feel like I’m in shock. I don’t even know what that is, going into shock. I feel confused, that’s all. Like I ought to be crying. Like I ought to be horrified, screaming and moaning, sitting with my legs pulled up against my chest, rocking back and forth.

But I’m not doing any of that.

I’m just standing in front of the big freezer, and there’s fog all around me. I’m just confused. I don’t understand why Grampa’s in the freezer, that’s all. I don’t understand.

Robert takes my hand, and he leads me upstairs to the parlor. He puts me on the couch, and he pulls a chair over and sits facing me.

He says, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I did that. I’m sorry I made you walk down there and look. I don’t know why I thought you should see him for yourself. But what was I going to do? Walk up here and say, Hey, I think the man in the freezer is your grandfather? I couldn’t do it, Gwen. But I probably should have. So I’m sorry. Really.”

There’s a big blue pillow next to me on the couch, and I pull it onto my lap, and then hug it with both arms. I look at Robert’s face, and he’s so pale, I can see little freckles on his nose. He’s the one who looks like he’s going into shock. He’s got his hands pressed between his knees, and I notice he’s wearing the new running shoes. From our trip to the store today. Which seems like years ago.

Time isn’t working anymore.

I hear myself say something. “We have to call the police.” My voice sounds like it’s out there, somewhere far away. I say it again. “We have to call the police.”

Robert nods. “Right. Yes. We do. Do you . . . do you think your uncle did it? Put him in there?”

I whimper and groan and wail all at the same time. Because the
how
question had not hit me, not until this moment. And the question hurts. How did this happen?

And I’m seeing my dad’s face when he learns about his father. About how Grampa was found.

But I see why Robert had to ask the
how
question. Because this is not an accident, that my grampa’s in the freezer. Who could do that? And why? Could Uncle Hank do that? Could anyone?

How?

It’s from “Sailing to Byzantium.” Yeats is no comfort.

I’m still in the fog, and all I can think to say is, I’m so sorry, Grampa, I’m so sorry.

Grampa’s face. I want to see him smile. I want to hear him laugh when that guy on
Wheel of Fortune
makes a bad pun. It’s not going to happen.

And the reality of the situation around me begins to take shape in my mind. Because I can see a murder investigation, right off a true-crime TV show. It’s coming. I’m seeing technicians dusting for fingerprints. I’m seeing men and women with rubber gloves and little flashlights poking into every corner of the house, every corner of Grampa’s life. Every corner of my life too.